Wednesday 13 November 2024

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1910 Fullers Porter

I should be in Brazil when you read this. That's if they manage to sort out all the travel arrangements in time.

It’s perhaps a sign of Porter’s decline that it’s lost seven degrees in gravity since 1897. The real apocalypse was just around the corner: WW I. The style never recovered from the effects of the war.

The heart of the grist remains the classic trilogy of pale, brown and black. Though a little over half of the last was added to the copper rather than to the mash tun. Presumably to add more colour.

There were tow types of sugar, both pretty dark. Caramel and something called Special Dark Invert. For which I’ve substituted No. 3 invert. Not sure that the small amount of flaked maize used would have had any noticeable effect on the finished beer.

Four types of hops again. East Kent from the 1908 and 1909 harvests, English from 1908 and Oregon from 1909. 

1910 Fullers Porter
pale malt 5.50 lb 56.41%
brown malt 1.00 lb 10.26%
black malt 0.50 lb 5.13%
flaked maize 0.25 lb 2.56%
No. 3 invert 2.25 lb 23.08%
caramel 1000 SRM 0.25 lb 2.56%
Cluster 90 mins 0.75 oz
Goldings 60 mins 0.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins 0.75 oz
OG 1049
FG 1012
ABV 4.89
Apparent attenuation 75.51%
IBU 33
SRM 37
Mash at 146º F
Sparge at 170º F
Boil time 90 minutes
pitching temp 60º F
Yeast WLP002 English Ale

Tuesday 12 November 2024

The Death of the English Pub

When Christopher Hutt give his lament that title in 1973, he didn't fear the pub's total extinction. Just the disappearance of pubs as they had been before the 1960s. It seems pubs now face a more existential threat. At least, if my recent visit to the UK is anything to go by.

Me and Mikey regularly pop over to Folkestone in his car. To drink beer, east fish and chips, have a curry, buy cheese and crumpets to bring home. I've drunk in the town's pubs pretty often. Believe me, pretty often. I have a point of reference.

It had been a while since our last trip. Two and a half years. But it was quite a shock to see the changes in pub life.

First night there, Thursday, we went to the Royal Cheriton on Cheriton High Street*..Three customers. A mother and her ten-year-old daughter, dressed for Halloween, and an old chav in a corner nursing a pint. When we left after a couple of pints, we were the last customers. I've never seen the pub that quiet at any time of day.

The interior of the Royal Cheriton with empty seats and a sigh saying "Blackheath".

Next day, Friday, we're in Dover for some shopping. (At Iceland, don't judge me.) A new shopping centre close to the docks. I notice a pub right next to it and think "That's a bit of luck for that boozer, having a load of shops built right next to it.

Mikey has something to do, so I think what I always think when I have a free moment and there's a pub nearby: "Let's give that pub a try."

Totally deserted.

A pub bar with empty chairs and only a barman behind it.

That evening, 8 PM in the East Kent Arms. A down-to-earth sort of place that's usually pretty busy. A dozen drinkers, clustered around the bar.

The bar of the East Kent Arms with Halloween decorations.

Harvey's an hour later: ten customers, at most.

The bar in Harveys with an old man watching football on TV.

This was a Friday night in a town centre. The lack of punters was truly scary. What's it like on a wet Monday?

I fear for pubs as an institution. As a part of everyday life every where in the country.

Only one pub we visited that night was busy. You can probably guess which. Wetherspoons. Where the beer was 1.99 a pint.

Yet more sadness. None of the pubs mentioned (other than 'Spoons) had any cask beer. While they had before, except the East Kent Arms. I'm guessing a sign of falling sales generally.

London and touristy spots like York will doubtless keep a reasonable number of pubs. Maybe even mostly sustained by visitors.

What about less fashionable towns? How many pubs will survive in them?



* We also ate Sunday dinner here. Under nine quid for a proper home-cooked roast. Dead good. I can totally recommend it. There were a fair few other customers, but on our previous visit we struggled to find a seat. I feel very sorry for the landlady because it's a well-run pub.

Monday 11 November 2024

Beer Guide to the 1970s (part eighteen)

More 1970s breweries. And again, only one of the three is still knocking around.  Though another closed as recently as last year.

I tried beers from all the breweries. And I was very fond of the beers of two of them: Hydes and Jennings. It was a sad, sad day when the latter closed.

 

Hull
Hull,
East Yorkshire.
Founded:    1765
Closed:    1986
Tied houses:    210

Another rather odd brewery. Most of their tied houses were in the Hull area, though they extended up to Scarbrough in the North and to North Lincolnshire in the South. The beer was rough filtered and mostly served from ceramic cellar tanks. In the free trade, however, it was delivered in casks. After initially classifying the beers as real ale, CAMRA changed their minds in 1980 and considered it as bright beer. I quite liked the Bitter, was which sold on handpump in the Town Hall Tavern in Leeds. They were bought and closed by Mansfield Brewery in 1986.

beer style format OG description
Bitter Pale Ale draught 1037.75 well-balanced and fairly bitter
Light Mild Mild draught   could be described as a Light Bitter, mostly found in the West Riding
Mild Mild draught 1032.25 Dark Mild
Keg Bitter Pale Ale keg   less bitter than the draught Bitter
Top Score Lager keg 1037.9  
Light Ale Pale Ale bottled    
Pale Ale Pale Ale bottled   stronger and paler than the Light Ale
Mild Mild bottled   Dark Mild paler in the West Riding
Brown Ale Brown Ale bottled   sweeter and stronger than the Mild Ales
Anchor Export Pale Ale bottled   stronger than the Pale Ale
Double Anchor Barley Wine bottled    



Hydes
Manchester,
Lancashire.
Founded:    1863
Closed:    still open
Tied houses:    50

Hydes was one of the smallest breweries in the Manchester area. Their pubs were mostly in North Manchester, though there were a few in North Wales.

beer style format OG description
Bitter Pale Ale draught 1036 well hopped
Mild Mild draught 1032 Dark Mild
Best Mild Mild draught 1034 A blend between the Bitter and the Mild
Anvil Strong Ale Strong Ale draught 1068 rich and heavy
Anvil Keg Bitter Pale Ale keg   with some character
Amboss Lager keg 1034.7  
Anvil Ale Pale Ale bottled    
Anvil Gold Pale Ale bottled 1042.7 strong Pale Ale
Anvil Strong Ale Strong Ale bottled   strong dark Ale
Anvil Brown Ale Brown Ale bottled    
Anvil Stout Stout bottled 1041.4 Sweet Stout



Jennings
Cockermouth,
Cumbria.
Founded:    1828
Closed:    2023
Tied houses:    79

Based in the Lake District, Jennings had a pretty good reputation. I certainly enjoyed their beers. Their pubs were located in the Lakes, with some free trade stretching further south. They were purchased by Wolverhampton & Dudley in 2005. When they in turn were taken over by Carlsberg, the brewery was closed.

beer style format OG description
Bitter Pale Ale draught 1035 well hopped
Mild Mild draught 1033 Dark Mild
KB Keg Bitter Pale Ale keg   A high-gravity, well-flavoured keg beer which is not overgassed
Special Pale Ale Pale Ale bottled    
Castle Pale Ale Pale Ale bottled 1034.8 stronger Pale Ale, the equivalent of the draught Bitter
Export Pale Ale bottled 1037.3 the strongest Pale Ale
Brown Ale Brown Ale bottled 1033.6 medium sweet


 

Sunday 10 November 2024

In Brazil again

 Just got into Salvador  in Brazil. My third time in the country this year, I've been s looking forward to it. The weather has been horrible in Amsterdam. Quite cold and really damp. Just what my shitty lungs find such fun.

A few days in the tropics will help. Doing my usual judging/lecturing thing.

I've entered crossing off  mode for lots of things. A sign of the limited number of days I still have. Countries, US States, parish councils. I'm up fro crossing any of them off a list. One which is totally virtual.

Brazil. The tropics. Lots of cachaca. I'm so excited. No great feat when you're as decrepit as I am.

18 hours I travelled today. So whip crack away, whip crack away, whip crack away,


Flying North

I’m feeling a little better when I trail my bags outside and order an Uber. Terminal 2, I need.

The traffic is still anarchic and intense, even this late. And just as undisciplined. Which is scary as we’re going pretty fast – around 100 kph. A crash at this speed wouldn’t just result in a small dent.

Check in is pretty quick. It’s passport control and security that take the time. Why the fuck is the airport so crowded at 1:30 AM? It’s over an hour before I’m done. Leaving me 30 or 40 minutes in the lounge.

It’s easy enough to find. But my heart drops when I see that it’s a Saudi Airlines lounge. I correctly assume that there will be no booze. Not being hungry, it’s just and orange juice and a water for me.

On the way to my gate, I spot somewhere selling miniatures. I get myself a couple of Jack Daniels.

“Will you drink these on the plane or in the airport?”

What’s the right answer to this? Pretty sure you aren’t allowed to drink your own spirits on a plane.

“In the airport.”

Apparently, that is the correct reply.

I get to my gate at exactly the right time: as they’re just finishing boarding zone 1. And nearly ready for zone 2, where I am.

The legroom isn’t great. Meaning I can’t get in a good position to sleep. Which is what I’d hoped to do on this first leg. I try continuing to watch House of the Dragon. It doesn’t work. I can’t concentrate properly, but aren’t really falling asleep. Great. The worst of both worlds.

After the lights are dimmed, a make a valiant effort to sleep. Is it a partial victory? Or almost a total defeat? It feels like the latter when the lights come back and breakfast is served.

A breakfast of omelette, fruit, croissant, yogurt, tea and orange juice.

Compared to KLM economy class food, it’s haute cuisine. There’s an omelette, fruit, orange juice, yogurt, a croissant, a roll, butter and jam. Accompanied by tea. Into which I surreptitiously slip my two miniatures of whiskey. That should wake me up, shouldn’t it?

When we land, it’s very foggy. And not yet light. Not exactly cheerful.

A foggy runway at Charles de Gaulle airport.

Charles de Gaulle is as charming as ever. There’s some walking, a shuttle ride, lots of walking, security and passport control. Then lots more walking.

When I’ve completed the obstacle course and reached terminal 2F, it’s time to find the lounge. Luckily there’s an information board. According to which, the Air France lounge is two minutes to the right. So off I head.

No sign of a lounge after a couple of minutes’ walking. I head back and notice signs pointing to the lounge being in the opposite direction. I wander that way. After a while the signs stop. With no sign of a lounge.

Where the fuck is it? After a bit more wandering around, I spot an airport employee of some sort. “Where’s the Air France lounge?” I ask.

“Fifty metres in that direction.”

The exact opposite of what the fucking stupid information screen said. That disinformation machine made that more fucking complicated than it needed to be.

I’m feeling more lively when I finally enter the Air France lounge. Ooh look, there’s a bottle of whisky. It would be impolite not to give it a try.  Even though it is 7 AM.

The booze table in the Air France lounge.

My flight is just after eight. It will probably start boarding around half seven. How many whiskies can I get down in half an hour? Sounds like a challenge to me.

I start with a decent-sized measure. It’s very warming. I’m feeling even better than before by the time I’ve got it down. Time for another, I think. With a side order of orange juice. I’m very health conscious, you know.

When I’ve finished off the second whisky, I check the departures screen. My flight has just started boarding. Time for just one more. Just a smallish one. No more than a triple. Or so.

The gate isn’t too far. It doesn’t take that long to get there. They’re already quite a way through boarding. A woman is sitting in my seat. She’s really been assigned the middle seat. Cheeky git, trying to nick mine.

The plane is ready to leave. Except there are two no-shows. With checked bags that need to be unloaded. Great. It sets us back more than half an hour.

We’re fed a single biscuit. Plus a drink. It’s OK. Not being long since I had a decent breakfast.

Obviously, we arrive late. Not a worry for me as all I need is a taxi to continue my journey. More so for those with connecting flights. Of which I assume there are quite a few, judging by the rush with which some disembark.

I have to wait quite a while before my flight’s bags are unloaded. Exactly what I didn’t want.

My bag is one of the first out. Soon after, I’m in a taxi speeding through the rain. Outside is a grey and green blur. With cars staying in their fucking lanes. So comforting.

At home, Dolores is waiting for me. With tea. As always.

 


Saturday 9 November 2024

Let's Brew - 1910 Fullers Burton Old

Still a few Fullers recipes to polish off for my book "Free!". Though even that will only about half way to the end total. Lots more work to do.

Sometime around 1900, Fullers changed the name of their Strong/Stock Ale from XXK to BO, or Burton Old. Not sure why they did that. Butt they would stick with the new name for several decades.

There are a few significant differences in the recipe. The biggest being the lack of brown malt in this iteration. Instead, there’s a small amount of caramel for colour. There’s also been a small amount of flaked maize added. The majority of the base malt was made from English barley, with around a quarter from Chilean barley.

Other differences? The OG is two degrees lower. And the boil time is 75 minutes longer.

Four types of hops: Mid-Kent from the 1908 and 1909 harvests, English from 1908 and Oregon from 1907.

I’m pretty sure this would have been brewed as a Stock Ale. Being aged for at least six months in trade casks before sale. Possibly as much as a year or more.
 

1910 Fullers Burton Old
pale malt 14.75 lb 87.69%
flaked maize 0.67 lb 3.98%
No. 2 invert sugar 1.33 lb 7.91%
caramel 1000 SRM 0.07 lb 0.42%
Cluster 165 mins 2.00 oz
Fuggles 60 mins 2.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins 2.00 oz
Goldings dry hops 1.00 oz
OG 1075
FG 1020
ABV 7.28
Apparent attenuation 73.33%
IBU 76
SRM 13
Mash at 152º F
Sparge at 168º F
Boil time 165 minutes
pitching temp 60º F
Yeast WLP002 English Ale

 

Friday 8 November 2024

Pyramids

I rise at 9:20 again. And go straight downstairs for breakfast.

In a wild move away from my usual approach, I start with fruit. Then move on to cheese and salad. What a wacky bloke I am!

A breakfast of cheese, tomato, fruit, tea and orange juice.

This is going to be a weird day. Andrew is off to a wedding at 5 PM. And I need to head to the airport at around midnight. I probably won’t see Andrew before I leave.

I’m feeling pretty shit. That’s why I had a very modest breakfast: no appetite. This is crap.

I manage to drag Andrew out of bed around 11 AM. And soon we’re headed towards Giza and the pyramids.

It’s quite a long drive. Obviously, quite a crazy one, too. Along motorway-like three- to five-lane roads. With people walking along the side. Or even in the road. Two people are standing on the inside lane having a photo taken. Not sure why, as the background looks pretty grim.

The road is bounded by bulky grey apartment blocks, with tiny streets between them. You could almost shake hands across the upper storeys. The dismal flats are interrupted every so often by mosques or Coptic churches, topped with four-armed crucifixes.

It would depress the fuck out of me if I lived here. Dust is everywhere and many buildings appear half-finished, sad fingers of rebar reaching up into the sky. Washing flaps on racks hung from windows

We stop next to a little shop. Our driver jumps out and returns with two bottles of water.

“You’ll need this at the pyramids. And they charge crazy prices there.”

That’s really nice of him. And he doesn’t ask for any money. He’ll be getting a good tip.

At a random point we branch off into one of the tiny side streets. Where children play. And a butcher is hacking up a cow carcass. An exposed ribcage grasps at the air. At a bakery trays of flat bread are piled up on wooden trays and whisked away. It’s all a bit medieval.

At the entrance to the pyramids, it’s total chaos. People randomly pushing towards the ticket windows. Great.

Pyramids with horses and carts in the foreground.

Not fancying walking up a hill in the full sun, we take a horse and cart. Wouldn’t have been my first choice. Except the other options were horseback or camel.

Rather than experiencing the ancient majesty of the pyramids, I’m mostly experiencing fear for my life. For some reason, rather than the relatively smooth toad, we take a stone track up the hill.

It’s not very even, pitted with potholes. With a scattering of rocks. Some around double the size of a cricket ball (For Europeans, that’s 0.33 of a metric football.) As we rock dramatically from side to side, I wonder how high the centre of gravity is. And how far it’s safe to lean.

A horse and cart on a rocky track.

Pulling completely off the road, it’s remarkably smoother than the track. Equally littered with rocks, but pothole-free.

We stop for a photo call with a good view of all three of the large pyramids. Not wanting the considerable faff of remounting, I stay back. While I’m alone, the horse of an empty cart comes along to say hello to our horse. Which, unimpressed, snorts and lashes out with a front leg. For an instant, I fear it’s going to bolt, dragging me to a stony death.

I’m just relieved when I can get off in one piece. Maybe we should have gone for the camel option.

Pushing our way through the Egyptian vendors of tack, we find a free space where we can order an Uber.

“That was an unforgettable experience.”

“Really, Dad?”

“Not necessarily for the right reasons.”

“OK . . .”

Andrew doesn’t ask, and I don’t explain, further. Wouldn’t want to ruin the experience for him.

Our return route is completely different. Equally grim. A forest of mid-rise blocks, their dull colours dimming the sun.

Empty chairs and tables in the Flamenco hotel bar.

“I’ve still got a couple of hours before the wedding. Do you fancy a drink in the hotel bar?”

“Well, it is bad luck to walk past an open pub.”

“I never believed you when you said that when I was little.”

“I think you did for a while.”

“Just humouring you, Dad. Like I still do,”

I don’t care to ask any further about that. And keep shtum.

Hurrah! It’s almost empty. And pretty much smoke-free. My throat is still aching from yesterday.

We sit at the end of bar again.

“Let me guess what you’re having, Andrew.”

“OK. Go on then.”

“A non-alcoholic beer.”

“Fuck off, Dad. And let me guess what you’re having. An octuple whisky. Like you pour yourself at home?”

Damn. He’s already said fuck off. I have to come back with something else witty. Something completely different.

“Go fuck yourself.”

We only have a couple of hours before Andrew needs to start making himself look beautiful. Time for him to knock back no more than half a dozen half litres. And me a similar number of whiskies. Just doubles.

Thankfully, few smokers appear.

It’s a bit strange after Andrew leaves. To be safe, I need to leave around midnight. I’ve seven hours to fill. What should I do? I don’t want to stray far. Maybe a meal in the hotel restaurant.

My stomach doesn’t feel great. Despite the whisky. I sit at my laptop and watch some YouTube. Despite setting the aircon to 20 C, it’s getting really chilly. I could open the window, Instead, I put on my coat. And zip it up. That’s better.

Andrew hasn’t got up for breakfast once. He did eat one breakfast, though. Just before he went to bed on the day we arrived.

Later, I lie in bed and watch Tripped. Then the first series of Spaced. Am I going down to the restaurant? Doesn’t seem worth it. I finish off the Irish cheese and drink some water. And then vomit. Glad I didn’t waste money on fancy food.
 

Thursday 7 November 2024

Beer Guide to the 1970s (part seventeen)

It's back to the 1970s again. With another three breweries. At least one of this set is still open. And a cracking example of a traditional English brewery it is.

I was very sad when Home Ales sold up and then closed. Personally, I would have put money on it being a survivor, They seemed o have everything well under control. Until they didn't.



Home
Daybrook,
Nottingham.
Founded:    1890
Closed:    1996
Tied houses:    400

The largest of the three Nottingham brewers, Home Ales was a very well-run business. With cheap, reliable beer sold in unpretentious surroundings. Not the most thrilling of beers, but always in good condition. Their downfall was the installation of a new brewhouse. This caused infection problems that they were never able to solve. Their beer went from always being sound to almost always being infected. After a year or two, they sold up to Scottish & Newcastle in 1986.

beer style format OG description
Bitter Pale Ale draught 1038.7 well hopped
Mild Mild draught 1036.1 Dark Mild
Five Star Pale Ale keg 1047.5 high gravity keg beer
Robin Hood IPA IPA bottled 1045 strong Pale Ale
Bendigo Strong Ale bottled   strong Ale
Home Brewed Brown Ale bottled 1036 Brown Ale
Luncheon Ale Brown Ale bottled   A lighter Brown Ale
Home Stout Stout bottled 1037 Sweet Stout



Hook Norton
Hook Norton,
Oxfordshire.
Founded:    1852
Closed:    still open
Tied houses:    34

Owner of a classic Victorian tower brewery, Hook Norton had a small tied estate in close vicinity. With such a small estate, in such a limited area, their beers weren’t easy to find, other than at festivals. Once, while driving down to a gig in London, we stopped in one of their pubs. Well worth the effort.

beer style format OG description
Best Bitter Pale Ale draught 1036 with the smack of hops
Mild Mild draught 1032 dark and fruity
Old Hookey Old Ale draught 1049  
Jack Pot Pale Ale bottled 1036 bottled Best Bitter
Hook Ale Mild bottled 1032 bottled Mild
Brown Ale Brown Ale bottled    



Hoskins
Leicester,
Leicestershire.
Founded:    1877
Closed:    2001
Tied houses:    1

A tiny brewery which was based in Leicester, but whose only tied house was in Market Bosworth. They also owned an off-licence and had some free trade. Despite that, their beers were very hard to find. Quite an odd little brewery.

beer style format OG description
Bitter Pale Ale draught 1039 nutty-flavoured
Mild Mild draught 1033 dark and nutty
Bitter Pale Ale keg 1039  
Mild Mild keg 1033  
Home Brewed Pale Ale bottled   A Pale Ale
IPA IPA bottled   stronger, bottled Bitter
Strong Strong Ale bottled   Strong Dark Ale
Best Mild Mild bottled   bottled Mild
Nut Brown Brown Ale bottled   a Brown Ale stronger than the Mild

 

Wednesday 6 November 2024

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1880 Chapman X

Another Chapman beer today. I've just spent a whole day writing up my Cairo trip. The another posting them out for the next week or so.

Unlike London brewers, who had mostly cut back to just a single Mild Ale by this point, Chapman still brewed a range of X Ales. This being the weakest of the set.

As was typical for Mild Ales at the time, there’s not much to the grist. It’s just base malt and sugar. There is some interest in the base malt, as there are two types. The majority is made from Saale, that is German, barley.

The sugar is described as “Pale Ref”. Not sure what that might be and have substituted No. 1 invert.  Whatever, the result is a pretty pale beer. Which is similar in colour to their Pale Ales.

Just the two types of hops: Kent from 1878 and Californian from 1879. No dry hops.

1880 Chapman X
pale malt 6.50 lb 68.42%
No. 1 invert sugar 3.00 lb 31.58%
Cluster 90 mins 1.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins 1.00 oz
OG 1051
FG 1006
ABV 5.95
Apparent attenuation 88.24%
IBU 30
SRM 7.5
Mash at 145º F
Sparge at 167º F
Boil time 90 minutes
pitching temp 58.5º F
Yeast WLP023 Burton Ale



 

Tuesday 5 November 2024

More lazing in Cairo

I rise at 9:20. Giving me enough time for a leisurely breakfast. Andrew continues snoring away in bed. The lazy git.

Cheese, salad and fruit again. With tea.  Rather nice tea. Like the proper English stuff. I have a couple of cups.

A breakfast of cheese, salad, orange juice and tea.

The plan for today was to visit the pyramids. But it’s after 3 PM by the time Andrew drags his arse out of bed. We discover that the ticket office closes at 4 PM. It’s too late for us to visit today.

“What about going to the pub, Dad?”

“We could do.”

“Five Bells?”

“That works for me.”

This time there aren’t just a few customers. There are none at all. We take seats close to where we sat last time.

I start with a Stella. As does Andrew, obviously. It’s much like the first time. Except there’s no footy on the telly. Well, not a match. But some sort of football show, where players are interviewed.

I switch to Egyptian whisky after finishing the Stella. Andrew is just about polishing of his third bottle.

A prawn cocktail in Five Bells.

We order food again. Cheese croquettes for Andrew, a prawn cocktail for me. Disappointingly, there’s quite a lot of tomato ketchup on top of it.

“Look Andrew. They’re going to show the Manchester City game.”

“Is it live?”

“I think so. It is three o’clock in the UK.”

The Stella and whiskies flow through us, as the afternoon slinks into evening. A few other diners appear. An Egyptian family. Two German women. Still not exactly a crowd.

Zamalek shops.

We leave around 8 PM. And don’t return directly to our hotel. Concerned at the total absence of booze, we searched for off-licences before going to the pub. There’s one just a little bit further. Unfortunately, on the other side of quite a big road.

I’m quite apprehensive about crossing it.

“You need to be more aggressive, Dad. And just walk out into the road as if you assume drivers are going to avoid you.”

“That doesn’t sound exactly safe.”

“Don’t worry. Everyone else is doing it.”

“And look like they could get run over at any moment.”

“You’re such a wimp, Dad.”

“One who is still alive.”

The offie is called Sakara Bazar. It’s a hole in the wall sort of place. With a counter on the pavement almost completely blocking entry.

“What would you like sir?” The assistant asks friendlily in very good English.

“Egyptian whisky.”

“The best?”

“No, the cheapest.”

He invites me to squeeze through the small gap and enter the shop to take a look at the selection. While Andrew grabs some cans of beer from the fridge.

“This is obviously Heineken-owned, based on the beers they’re selling.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

I end up getting an expensive Egyptian whisky. A single malt. Our triple-bagged haul comes to around 20 euros. Not too bad.

Not totally sure how, but I make it back across the scary road intact.

“I wouldn’t want to do that every day.”

“You probably wouldn’t need to. At least, not for longer than a week.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t survive that long with your load-crossing technique.”

“Thanks, Andrew.”

A street in Zamalek, Cairo,

Some of the streets are on the way back are pretty poorly-lit. And infested with cats running around everywhere. Rather a confusion of cats than a pack of dogs.

While watching some stuff on my laptop, we drink responsibly. Really. You don’t believe me? You cynical bastard.

It’s shocking how quickly 75 cl of whisky can disappear. Especially if your git of a son is drinking it as well. Despite having seven half-litre cans of beer.

Nothing left for a nightcap. Unless you count the whole evening. Which wouldn’t be fair.



Five Bells
13 Ismail Mohammed,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 11211.
 

Monday 4 November 2024

Museum

I planned getting up just in time for the end of breakfast at ten. But my watch is still on Amsterdam time. And I rise 30 minutes too late. Damn.

The upside, is that I can stay in bed longer. Which I do. A couple more hours, as I’m feeling well knacked.

We were supposed to be meeting some of Andrew’s university mates at the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization at noon. But it keeps getting delayed. Meaning we can stay longer in bed. We finally meet up at 2 PM.

The ride over there is, er, interesting. Many of the roads are three lanes wide. But there’s no lane discipline. Cars, motorbikes, buses and all weave in and out of each other. It’s a wonder that there aren’t loads of collisions. Then again, seeing how many cars have dented and scratched bodywork, missing bits and parts held on with duct tape, it’s clear that there are loads of bumps.

Every driver apparently fears, should they ever stop, they’ll never get moving again. Even when, apparently, totally blocked in. I can’t understand how it works without total carnage.

Exterior of the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization.

We have to pass through a metal detector at the entrance to the museum. Which seems pretty standard here. It’s the same at the hotel. Though there the armed guard does nothing when it beeps as a guest enters.

“Racial profiling, Dad. That’s the reason.”

“Probably. When it advantages you, it doesn’t seem quite as despicable.”

The museum has artifacts from the stone age almost up to the present day. We go around in revers chronological order. Which I suppose is the opposite of what you’re supposed to do.

Old pottery in the museum.

Downstairs is the mummy room. There are a couple of dozen of them. Mostly pharaohs from various periods.

“Have you noticed something, Dad?”

“What?”

“They’re all short arses.”

“True. Though almost everyone is compared to you. Other than Lexie.”

Museuming done, the plan is to have some drinks and then food. Sounds good to me. We take a few cabs over to Cairo Cellar. It’s a pretty upmarket wine bar in the basement of a posh hotel.

We’re warned on entry that we’ll have to leave before 8 PM as some of us are wearing shorts. Including me. As soon as the thermometer hits 20 C, I ditch long kegs. Being old and sweaty, my lower regions need all the ventilation I can get.

It’s very dark inside. I can barely read the menu. What to drink? A local rum, I think. As usual, Andrew plumps for a Stella, as usual.

Rum and coke.

The group keeps getting larger. And less manageable. After a few drinks, and just before the 8 PM deadline, it’s time to pay up and move on to the restaurant.

It’s a bit of a cab ride away. A rather scary one. Is it worse or better at night when you can’t see the other traffic as easily. I’d call it a draw. On a three-lane road, with pretty fast traffic, a horse and cart passes us. Coming in the wrong direction in the outside lane.

Just before we get to the restaurant, we pass a fish market. Stalls loaded with ice topped by fans of fish. I’ve never seen a market, let alone a fish market, open this late.

Our destination is Sobhy Kaber. A place serving traditional Egyptian food which sprawls of several large rooms and three floors. Simply put: it’s massive.

Sobhy Kaber butcher.

On the ground floor, opposite the entrance, is a butchers, with slaps of meat dangling from hooks. Waiters scurry about, holding high wooden trays of small, round flat bread. It’s all pretty chaotic. And full.

One of the rooms in Sobhy Kaber.

We’re ushered to a spot next to the bakery to wait for our private room to be ready. I watch as hundreds of flat breads are churned out and then whisked away.

“It must be fun working there in the summer, I remark to Andrew.”

“I can imagine.”

Sobhy Kaber bakery.

We’re led off to a private room. And soon plates of stuff begin to appear. We each get one of salad and some sort of coriander dip. Then fruit appears. Because, this place being very traditional, it serves no alcohol. Just as well I got a good few rums down earlier.

Meat and vegetable dishes are placed on the table. Spicy lamb sausages, pigeon stuffed with rice, tender slices of spicy beef served in tin foil, a baked dish of rice and meat. All sorts of exotic things, almost none of which I recognise.

Sobhy Kaber food.

And there’s bread. Thin, flat bread, around the size of a hand towel, folded into a cone. And the small, round puffed-up ones that I’ve seen being made, transported and consumed all over the place.

It truly is an Egyptian feast. I just wish I was hungrier and could appreciate it better.

Sobhy Kaber baked rice.

It’s about 11 PM when we tip out onto the pavement. Lots of diners are still just arriving. Many with quite small children in tow.

“Have you noticed all the little kids still coming out to eat?”

“It is the Mediterranean, Dad. People do just the same on the European side of the sea.”

“I suppose they do.”

We’re lucky and get an Uber pretty much straight away. The most difficult thing is spotting the right car. The numberplates being all in Arabic script. Including the numbers/ We mostly go by the colour and make of car.

As we duck and dodge along the crowded roads, I notice a brightly-lit shop called Drinkies. Is that what I think it is? I spot what looks like a shelf packed with bottles of wine. What a great name for an offie. I’m surprised it’s still open, as it’s getting on for midnight. I make a mental note of the name for later.

Back at the hotel, Andrew asks: “Do you fancy a quick drink in the bar?”

“Sure.”

Flamenco hotel bar.

Andrew must be gasping for a pint after all that time in the restaurant. And we’ve run out of duty free. It’s surprising how quickly two litres of spirits can disappear. When you lock two pissheads in a hotel room.

The tables are all occupied and we grab a couple of stools at the bar. Andrew, once again, opts for Stella. I think I know why, now. It’s 4.5% ABV. While Sakara, the other major brand, is just 4%. I get an Egyptian whisky.

The drinks come with a bowl of what looks like cottage cheese, sticks of carrot and cucumber, as well as bread sticks. It remains untouched. Neither of us is ready for more food after the feast.

Hotel bar malt whisky.

They still allow smoking indoors. Everyone is chain smoking. And it’s quite a small room. Not very well ventilated. It’s been so long since I experienced one, I’d forgotten just how unpleasant a smoke-filled room is. Soon my throat is starting to ache.

“It reminds me of my last job in London. I was in a small room with two smokers. I had a permanent throat ache.”

“The good old days, eh?”

“Don’t take the piss.”

“Didn’t the smoke take everyone’s minds off the rickets and TB?”

“I’m not that fucking old.”

The bloke sitting next to me is puffing away, drinking Stella. And occasionally pouring himself a shot from a bottle of vodka. Looking around, I see a table of four has a bottle of Jack Daniels. A full litre.

We have a few more drinks. Quite a few more, as all the duty free is gone. Did I mention that earlier? We leave at 2 AM. Which is throwing out time.

Back in our room. We go straight to bed. As all the duty free is gone



Cairo Cellar
22 Taha Hussein,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 4271150


Sobhy Kaber
151 Ebeid,
As Sahel,
Rod El Farag,
Cairo Governorate 4350021


Flamenco Cairo Hotel
02 El Gezira El Wosta,
Abu Al Feda,
Zamalek,
Cairo Governorate 11211